


Disreputable Service

by SinNotAlone



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Collars, Dehumanization, Dom/sub, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Intrinsic power difference, Kneeling, M/M, Masochism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Service, Smoking, Spanking, Watersports, alternate universe - valet/lord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinNotAlone/pseuds/SinNotAlone
Summary: After his father's sudden death, the new Baron of Ren, Benjamin Solo, inherits his father's position and his valet, Armitage Hux. Lord Ren does not think it fitting for a baron to continue a dalliance with a valet he is now master to. Hux refuses to accept this change in their relationship.





	1. Hux

**Author's Note:**

> The now infamous Burberry ad campaign sparked this idea some months ago. As a life-long period drama addict, I couldn’t resist the call of the valet/lord AU. This is some Frankenstein’s monster of Star Wars, Downton Abbey, the Remains of the Day, and plain old porn. Suspend your disbelief and enjoy.

The soft scratch of the horsehair bristles whisking across the supple leather sent a tingle crawling along Hux’s scalp and down his spinal column. It exited through his fingertips, where they made contact with the leather as they held the boot steady. Those points of contact shined a little brighter than the rest of the leather, though Hux acknowledged that the luster was caused by the oils from his hand rather than by the ether transmitting his bliss.

This was always his favorite part of the process, when he’d rubbed away most of the muddy polish, and it was time to make the leather shine.

Little flakes of polish mingled with dust moats, floating in the sun beam cast down from the high windows. Electricity had been installed throughout the house prior to the start of Hux’s tenure, at no insignificant expense, he had been informed. But Hux did not trust the flickering yellow bulbs to adequately illuminate his task. It was easy to miss a spot of residue, a stray fingerprint, and second-rate work was not something he aspired to. So he positioned himself to take advantage of the afternoon sun, which had dropped low enough in the sky to stream in and fill the basement room with true, warm light. This was his final pair, and soon the sun would sag toward the horizon and leave him with only inferior, artificial luminance.

Hux had saved the best for last. The knee-high riding boots were rarely worn, though he polished them every week, regardless of whether they had seen use. He had few indulgences, living far out of the way and on meager wages, but one was improving upon the perfection of this particular pair.

Hux spread his fingers wide against the inside of the shaft and lifted the boot until the toe cap was level with his eyes. He rotated his forearm slowly to inspect the surface for blemishes, like he was searching for the glint of gold, eager to snatch. Satisfaction blossomed as he eradicated a smear of residue on the vamp with the vigorous application of the brush. He repeated the process until the boots shined like obsidian. He liked to think of them like that, made of the same essence as a deadly-sharp adze.

Though it was the scent of the polish, rather than the physical act of polishing, that set him off.

Hux had been at his task long enough that the earthy tang of polish filled the room, resin and soot mingling with the musty basement air. If stoppered his throat with his tongue, he could roll the scent around in his mouth like smoke from a luxuriant pipe. It was rich and thick, but the odor of it alone was not enough. He wondered how it would taste. If, layered on top of the leather, it would show nuance like an aged whiskey.

Hux cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, toward the stairway. He strained to listen for any footfalls, like a conspirator about to engage in treasonous activity. Tywyll House kept a sparse staff, even more so since the demise of the old lord, but he would not risk his reputation for a moment’s folly.

Hux set the boot on the table, compressed his hand, and snaked his arm back out of the shaft. The embrace of the leather had warmed him in more ways than one, and he was sorry to leave it. He didn’t dare disturb the glossy surface by grasping it with his fingertips, even though he knew his lips would leave their mark. But that mark would be a tribute, not an insult, and besides, he would soon erase it from all but his memory.

Hux lowered his lips. They hovered a minuscule distance above the surface. The stooped aspect of his head and the perversity of the act quickened his pulse. He held his breath and brought them that fraction of an inch forward. The leather was smoother than any pair of lips he had kissed, although admittedly the number of times he had engaged in behavior of that sort was low.

The boot beneath his lips held a lonely void. Hux felt it was a pity there was no lively warmth filling the boot. A pity he could not perform this act to show favor to another, rather than for his own peculiar fancy. He imagined a pair of dark eyes staring down at him, a crooked mouth sneering, snarling insults about how he was suited for this task and no other. 

Hux let his tongue flick forward to meet the leather for just a second before he righted himself. He licked his lips and sucked at his tongue. He swallowed heavily the lump of lust that lay at the back of his throat. The polish held a bitterness that he relished all the more for it distastefulness. It brought back memories of bars of soap shoved between his lips, punishments for sneaking about after school.

In uneasy repose, Hux shifted slightly to adjust his growing discomfort. His cock had grown heated and thick in his trousers. It pressed against the seam of his crotch, eager to be released. He spread his legs to discourage friction from heightening his state of arousal. He couldn’t relieve himself, not here, where anyone could see. That would have to wait until he was alone in the comfort of his own bed, all the better to elaborate on the fantasy he had constructed—his body pinned under one black boot by deep brown eyes.

A wet smear remained on the toe of the boot. Hux mournfully extinguished the evidence of his obeisance and left the pair just as perfect as before he had made his overture. He stood up from the table that bore his hour’s labor, the half-dozen pairs he kept in superlative care. Should his new master have need of shoes for any occasion, Hux had prepared him. It would take two trips to return the shoes to Lord Ren’s wardrobe, and soon it would be time for dinner. He could indulge no longer. 

* * *

The basement didn’t extend the full width of the house, only below the central portion, a vestige of the original foundation. The construction of Tywyll House had started during the tumultuous reign of Charles II, when the first Baron of Ren had earned his title on the battlefield and writ his family history from the winner’s perspective. Though the later additions mimicked the style, their craftsmanship lacked the exuberance of the original Baroque, and the lifelike carvings and inlays had been simplified toward the abstract.

Hux followed the staircase that led to the ground floor. It surfaced near the door to the west wing, tightly bolted shut, as it had been the whole of Hux’s employ. Though Hux had joined the household less than a year ago, he’d heard from the housekeeper, Mrs. Godfrey, that the wing had been closed off for years. He’d dared to explore it briefly one lonesome night, and in a moonlit gloom he’d seen the abandoned parlor dressed in the faded mauve of half-mourning. The shrouded furniture was covered in dust and cobwebs, and no personal effects remained. One visit had been enough to sate his curiosity, and he now felt a tightness at the base of his neck when he passed the sealed door. 

The Dowager Baroness of Ren resided in London and hadn’t visited Tywyll House in nearly a decade. Mrs. Godfrey had lamented the shame of it, that the break between the former baron and baroness had resulted in the dowager’s permanent removal to London, though it hadn’t come as a surprise, she’d said. They’d always been a tempestuous pair, swinging from overt demonstrations of affection to explosive arguments. Still, Mrs. Godfrey had remarked that Lady Ren had been very kind to her when she was only a parlor maid, keen to treat each new staff member with a sort of motherly concern. The old baron hadn’t been unkind, so much as oblivious to anything that did not involve drink or game.

Of course, now the house employed no parlor maids at all, and the remaining staff, barring Hux, had been there since the new Baron of Ren was in his minority.

Lord Ren’s rooms were located in the east wing, and to reach them, Hux was forced to traverse the corridor behind the dining room and cross the cavernous entrance hall. He assumed the arrangement of rooms had made sense in the past, to have the mistress of the house nearest the serving quarters, able to conveniently confer about the menu or approve the shopping list. Now it meant Hux trod the same well-worn carpets dozens of times a day. Three times just for his current task to return the shoes, and that many it had been to take them down in the first place.

The entrance hall held an air of things once fine now the victim of some neglect. It was grand, designed to inspire awe with its high vaulted ceiling, but the wood paneling should have been refinished long ago. The upholstery had adopted the dullness of time, though not of heavy use, a grey tinge that suffused much of the house. The air smelled of masculine carelessness—damp yet slightly charred—the result of drafty casements and ill swept chimneys.

Things were modestly improved upon in Lord Ren’s chambers, at least in terms of the furnishings. The desk in his study showed few scratches and was of a modern, lighter style, its curvilinear form evoking a maple bough. The bed hangings were a rich emerald green, the shade only possible to achieve with fresh aniline dye. But the walls were still a sallow shade of buff, and the ghost of moisture streaked above the lusterless wainscoting.

Hux was particularly well acquainted with the details of Lord Ren’s dressing chamber. He had observed the Turkish carpet from an intimate perspective, his cheek pressed firm against it, tracing the pattern to distract himself from the pain of ill-prepared penetration. The raw, rug burnt skin had formed scabs on his knees that had been easy enough to hide, but the abrasion on his face had required a fabricated story about a fall face-first on the gravel. Still, he would not exchange the memory of that forearm holding him so tight against the floor that it had taken a layer of his flesh from him. The phantom of those moments lurked in this room, in those little flakes of skin still under his feet. 

Hux knelt on that very same carpet and arranged the shoes in his master’s wardrobe, tucking the infrequently worn pairs to the back. It was a shame to put the handsome riding boots to rest in the far recesses, to be ignored until it next came time to polish the lot, so he set them aside to treat with last. He slipped shoe trees into the pair of re-heeled oxfords that Lord Ren wore when he needed to conduct business in town. They should be replaced, Hux thought, but Lord Ren seemed content to wear through the soles.

The young lord was a dramatic departure from his father. He favored his house slippers above any other shoe. A disappointment for Hux, as the modest heeled slip-on held little aesthetic appeal, and even less erotic enticement, except perhaps as a bludgeoning implement.

The sixth Baron of Ren had been a far flashier fellow. He’d replaced his boots at a ruinous rate, having spent most of his time engaged in shooting or gaming with the other men of the county. He but rarely had hosted his own guests at Tywyll House, instead he’d been content to make the journey and dine at others' expense. The funds he saved with his lack of hospitality, he frittered away on lost wagers. The Earl of Calrissian had been his frequent host, and at the time of the baron’s untimely demise, he’d been owed a shocking sum that the young lord had begrudgingly paid.

The death had been an utter shock, all had repeated. A hunting accident. Thrown from the saddle and trampled by his own horse, his neck broken, his chest crushed. Something, or someone, must have spooked the stallion. The baron had been a strong rider, keen to race and jump; he wouldn’t have been unseated easily.

Hux hadn’t seen the body, only the groundskeeper had, and young Lord Ren of course, who’d been forced to manage the fallout from the accident. He’d quickly seen his father buried in the family plot. The overturned earth was presently bare, lonely black dirt, with no wreath to provide cover until the grass regained its foothold. The dowager had sent a mason to install a stately headstone, but had not felt the need to come in person. There had been no public funeral.

Benjamin Solo, seventh Baron of Ren, had not been on agreeable terms with his father. He too much took after his mother’s side of the family, which had put him at odds with his father’s virile gregariousness. His maternal grandfather, Lord Vader, had been a preeminent poet, a standard bearer of the Romantics. His early death by duel had left Ben’s mother an orphan, her own mother having died in childbirth. An adoption had been arranged by the victor of the duel, who had once been Lord Vader’s closest friend. They said the duel had been over a lover, and some said that the friend and the lover had been one in the same.

Lady Ren had grown up in the reportedly wholesome household of Duke Organa, Leader of the House of Lords. But her willful independence and temper were of Vader stock through and through, and no adopted manners could eradicate them. The current Lord Ren was capable of outbursts that, though infrequent, set the household on edge for weeks.

Hux had once been so impertinent as to ask Lord Ren why he stayed at Tywyll House, at the very periphery of civilization, instead of joining his mother in London. To be fair, Hux felt a degree impertinence was warranted when he had spent the better part of the preceding hour on his knees. Lord Ren had made a sour face and scorned the artifice of _society_ , which he claimed to detest almost as much the sycophants who flocked to his aggrandized mother. The railway made it possible to visit London on the short term with some frequency and board at his club, but the longer semiannual stays with his mother were all he could tolerate of her household.

* * *

Hux took his leave of the boots, caressing them as he imagined Lord Ren with a little more of his father’s aspect in his sartorial selections. The sound of footsteps growing near made Hux recoil from the boots as if they were made of molten metal. He catapulted to his feet, and the rapid change in altitude brought blurred streaks to his vision. He groped blindly for the mantle to steady himself. While he had not yet put away the boots, it would not do to be hunched with his back to the door when Lord Ren entered the room. His heart thrummed as the door handle turned. The high pitch of his pulse echoed like the scream of steam in his ears. He bit the tip of his tongue to find a point of focus, to collect himself enough to address the master of the house. 

“Good evening your lordship,” Hux managed. He lowered his head in a quick bow and tucked his arms behind his back. His right hand grasped his left, and he squeezed until the bones ground together, hiding his struggle to appear at ease from the baron’s observation.

Lord Ren’s greeting was to shrug out of his robe and hand it to Hux. Behind him, one of his prized wolf hounds slunk in the open door. Lord Ren lay his hand on its docile grey head.

Hux took the dense silk brocade that Lord Ren lived much of his life in. He noted that the hem was threadbare and beginning to fray; it was not damage that could be easily fixed, though Hux would make an attempt. With great fortitude, Hux resisted the urge to hold the warm fibers to his face and inhale the musky salt he had previously tasted with his own tongue. Instead, he hung the robe and lamented the fact that by the time he was left alone with it, all the body heat would have dissipated.

“You know Hux, you really don’t need to go to the trouble of polishing those things. I hardly ever wear them,” Lord Ren commented. He pointed to the boots that were poorly hidden behind Hux.

Hux’s reply was ready, as it was one he could universally apply. “Thank you, your lordship, but I do not wish to appear remiss in my duties.” Still he took a step away from the boots, distancing himself from the accused, though he couldn’t help but glance back toward them.

Lord Ren explained, “Those were the duties my father insisted upon.” His face became grave as he paused before elaborating. “I am not that man, and though I have inherited his title and all that it entails, as I have explained, things will need to change. I’d rather see you apply yourself to something more worth your while.”

“Understood, sir,” Hux replied. He begrudged the changes Lord Ren had sprung upon his elevation to the family title. They entailed far more than just a lessening of the traditional duties of a valet.

“I won't dismiss you. That is unthinkable. Not with our _unique_ history, but I don't require the hovering valet my father viewed as a sign of his social superiority. I should rather have fineness of mind than fineness of appearance distinguish me,” Lord Ren lectured. He lifted his chin at the final comment, in an expression of hauteur that was as enticing as it was frustrating for Hux.  

“I shall not _hover,_ sir. Though I should be obliged if you would allow me to still serve you on occasion. _”_ Hux felt his obsolescence growing. The old baron had kept Hux sufficiently occupied, with his profuse social correspondence, his rapacious consumption of luxury goods, and his personal vanity. Hux now felt he was more valet to an aspiring mendicant than to a great lord, considering how Lord Ren shunned society.

Lord Ren paused to trace his fingers over the dog’s large ear, seeming to carefully consider the appropriate response, then continued, “Oh don’t sound so dejected Hux. I’ll not send you away, but I hardly think it appropriate to continue the dalliance we found ourselves involved in before the incident. You may serve me though attentiveness to my work, but I won’t have my reputation overshadowed by gossip.”

The acquisition of ink and paper and the posting of manuscripts was hardly an occupation, Hux thought, and he lacked the depth of knowledge that Ben had gained during his degree at Oxford to make any useful contribution beyond a simple proofread. Hux was not uneducated and had striven to better himself though a continuing course of study, but the critiques the baron engaged in were far beyond him. Besides, the baron’s endeavors seemed relatively fruitless of late. Hux posted a score of letters each week, but the rate of return was a modest trickle.

Hux wondered if perhaps Lord Ren’s ultimate goal was to incite his resignation, rid himself of the prospect of scandal without inciting Hux to vengeance by dismissing him. Hux couldn’t continue yearning at arm’s length indefinitely, waiting days and weeks as the memories of the baron’s harsh hands on his flesh grew dim. He’d considered Lord Ren’s disinterest in him appropriate in the wake of his father’s death, but weeks had passed and this constant detachment was driving him to increasing desperation.

Hux asked, “But why, sir, if I may be so bold, do you continue to spurn my attentions? Did you not enjoy the time we spent together? Surely one service you could still allow me to perform would be that of continued companionship.” Hux hated feeling like a pathetic mistress cast aside, his one-sided affections scorned.

A smirk of derision spread across the baron’s face. “ _Companionship_. That’s quite a delicate way to describe what you offer. I think a foolhardy heir may play with his father’s toys, but a baron certainly must hold himself to a slightly higher standard. These hounds provide all the companionship I require at present. I cannot afford to be distracted by lust,” Lord Ren said, pressing the flank of the dog up against his hip.

Hux’s head sunk at the baron’s words. His eyes trailed to the floor and flicked to glance at the boots once more.

“Honestly, you can’t even look at me, you’d prefer to stare down at those cursed boots,” Lord Ren derided.

Though Hux would prefer the baron’s sneer accompany a different set words, he couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in his belly. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Hux raised his head, but he couldn’t look the baron in the eye. He looked toward the clock on the mantle. Its sluggish second hand seemed to crawl under his watch.

Lord Ren continued, “Is it because you should you like to see me in them? I wonder. You always were first to be of service on the rare occasions I would ride with father, though you were not _my_ valet at the time.”

Hux swallowed. “No, sir.” To see Lord Ren dressed in his scarlet jacket and black boots, his hair damp with sweat, a flush on his checks, it would be a welcome sight indeed.

“I think you lie. But if that is not the case, why are you so enamored with these things? Are you envious, wishing you were under my heel, crushed against the floor? Do you wish to be them? Your hide stretched and tanned in the most abasing sacrifice. Or is it the horse you’re jealous of? The beast on burden who feels the spur’s bite.” Ben’s dark eyes narrowed, but his smirk remained.

Hux had no idea how to approach the absurdities Lord Ren was spewing. He might be doused in oil and set aflame and he would feel no lesser degree of panic. When the two of them had been ensnared in the heat of the moment, Lord Ren had made threats with his fingers, used words that left bruises, but he now claimed to be past all that.

“Answer me Hux. I command you to,” Lord Ren hissed with the hoarseness of a subdued shout.

“The beast, sir. The fineness of your gift of pain is not something I will soon forget.” Hux demurred no longer. Perhaps Lord Ren wished to humiliate him so thoroughly he would immediately quit the room and his employ. But his words were having an entirely different effect. Hux stood firm in his desperation.

Lord Ren snatched the boots and, with them in hand, stalked to the divan. The dog followed him and nestled itself near his feet. He kicked off his house slippers and called forth, “Well, don’t just stand there. You wished to be of service. Help me put them on.”

In an instant, Hux was at Lord Ren’s feet. He held the boot shaft steady as the lord guided his foot inside. To feel his well-muscled calf fill out the leather made Hux believe that, in this moment, all was as it should be. When Lord Ren stood, Hux stayed on his knees. The wolf hound rose as well, putting itself on a higher stature higher than Hux.

“How do they suit me?” Lord Ren asked.

Hux croaked out his reply. “Beautifully, your lordship. May I … might I show a little reverence?”

Lord Ren scoffed at the idea. “Oh no, you shall not touch.”

The baron took a tour around the room to taunt Hux and ended at fireplace, where he warmed his hands. He was illuminated from behind like a divine apparition, the dark strands of his hair set aglow, smoldering charcoal. Lord Ren looked down at Hux as he pressed the toe of one boot against the rough hearthstone. He wet his lips like he stood before a feast. “Should I give you something to do? Make your shining worthwhile?” With the intentionally of one firing a killing shot, Ben dragged his toe across the face of the stone.

Though he knew his ears must be mistaken, Hux believed he could hear the shriek of the leather as it was scratched. The heat of rage and something else equally primal threaded through his body, making him gasp for air.

Lord Ren let out a low chuckle. “Oh come now Hux. Don’t look so upset. You’ll fix them up for me, won’t you? And perhaps tomorrow I might even be impressed enough to make further use of your services. But for now, all I require is your assistance in removing these boots and fetching my jacket.”

“Yes, sir,” Hux groveled.


	2. Ben

Ben berated himself the whole of the next morning. Before he even rose from bed, the chorus of curses started. He lay under the coverlet, feigning sleep, pressing his face into the pillow in a half-hearted attempt to smother the loathing and himself with it. The buzz of oxygen he denied his lungs did little to drown out his own scathing judgment, and when he lolled his head to the side to take in a deep gulp of air, he felt only disappointment, not relief.

The voices echoed as he went about his half-hearted ablutions, swallowed his dry toast and scalding tea, and reviewed the previous day’s nearly fruitless work. You are weak; you are corrupt; you are paving your own path to the depths of hell, the voice nagged, sometimes loud as a siren, sometimes just a soft whisper, but nevertheless perpetual.

Ben was less than sure about the concept of eternal damnation, but buggering your servants was likely to earn you condemnation here on earth regardless of the hereafter. Ben had witnessed the figurative hell that an indictment for buggery flung the accused down into. The papers loved a scandal, especially when it involved the offspring of a society darling. He could see the headline, _Baron of Ren caught buggering bound valet in Hyde Park stable._ It would overshadow any achievement he attempted henceforth.

Upon his less-than-noble father’s death, Ben had decided that he wasn’t going to give into these urges, not anymore. The new Baron of Ren must appear better behaved than The Honorable Benjamin Solo had, and better by far than the old baron, dead and buried now with all his sins to weigh down his soul. His father had never grown out of his youthful urges. He’d ended his life a cad with a brandy-pickled liver and a laundry list of mistresses, and in another generation, no one would even remember his name.

Ben had managed to persevere in his self-denial for precisely one month.

At first Hux had kept his distance and not made himself too much of a temptation. He had appeared to understand that, though Ben had not been fond of his father, the death was still a shock from which he would require time to recover, and besides, there were a multitude of legal matters that required his full attention. It hadn't actually been a shock, but Ben used the circumstances to his advantage.

Hux had carried out the few duties that remained to him, like polishing those damnable boots, and made his presence otherwise scarce. But now that some weeks had passed, despite Ben’s communication that the entanglement was at an end, Hux’s hands had started to linger on his collar and cuffs far longer than necessary to ensure their fastening.

Those boots had been the nail in the coffin of Ben’s resolve. They had remained a vestige of Ben’s dominance, for Hux to tend in an attempt to kindle the ashes of desire. Hux’s surreptitious admiration of the boots, when Ben himself had been present in the room, bordered on absurd. He could not stand the thought of Hux preferring the husk of what had been over his own being, and Ben had been unable resist making the well-placed jab, not when Hux’s question about _companionship_ had riled him so. But to allow it to escalate like it had, that was his own fault. To taunt Hux with lewd savagery, just as he had enjoyed when Hux had been his father’s valet, was behavior unseemly for a baron.

Ben thought he had grown stalwart, but it took only the flush spreading across Hux’s pale cheeks, such a vivid stain on his milky skin, to set him off again. It was but a short mental journey to consider all the other shades he could turn Hux’s hide, as bruises and welts faded from angry purple to faint ocher smears. Ben liked it when they were swollen and raised, sensitive to the barest brush of his fingertip. But he also relished the grey ghost left on pale thighs where blood had been trapped and slowly reabsorbed—their history written in indelible ink.

With his father present, Ben had been denied the chance to monitor Hux as he would have liked. Subject to his father’s regular whims to gallivant across the county, and take Hux in tow, Ben had lacked consistent access to Hux’s body, to conduct the regular inspections he should have made Hux withstand. Upon his death, Ben’s realization that there was nothing stopping him from leaving Hux as bruised as he liked for as long as he wanted had been one impetus for his month of celibacy. But perhaps it had been folly to deny the desire the moment free reign had become possible. Was propriety worth a month of frustrated insomnia?

Now Ben found himself starving for Hux anew. He had been a man who was able to forget his own hunger until he caught the scent of a juicy roast. It was easy to fast if there is no feast to withstand. His celibacy had left him weak, and the taste of power the previous night, just a mouthful, made him eager to gorge himself. The look of lust mixed with trepidation that had been written on Hux’s face, which he was typically able to school to bland condescension, had been the sweetest ambrosia.

Ben savored the abundant sense of victory when, just as anticipated, he found his boots polished to perfection and waiting in his dressing room. He had no intention of riding today, but he slipped them on nonetheless. The leather encasing his legs made him straighten his spine and roll his shoulders back, presenting his broad chest. It seemed silly for such confidence to come from the simple donning of a calf’s hide; nonetheless, Ben began to mull ways to rekindle his involvement with Hux on terms that bent, but did not break, his new code of conduct.

If Hux needed to be of service so badly, it could be possible to find ways to make use of him without stooping to baseness of outright buggery. He could wade in up to his ankles and not be swept away with the current. This month of self-denial had proved he could withstand temptation, if he truly wanted. And a valet was meant to serve, maybe not on his knees, but no one need know the minor details. Hux could reap whatever perverse enjoyment he derived from Ben’s ill treatment, and by denying Hux physical contact, Ben would add a layer of disregard that would compensate a little for the loss.

Hux was not foolhardy, he wouldn’t tell a soul that his service exceeded the strictly necessary, and Ben hardly saw the handful of other servants here at Tywyll House. Mrs. Godfrey had married the gardener years ago, and together they had removed to the carriage house. Ben was as confident in her capabilities and he was in her discretion and consequently allowed her to work as she pleased. Jacob, the doer of odd jobs and sometimes-footman, was the cook’s son, and the two of them, like an increasing number of those in service, lived in the village where Jacob’s father mended metal and only came to Tywyll House when their services were needed.

Ben rang for Mrs. Godfrey. She would surely see nothing out of the ordinary with his request, as reclusive behavior was his standard. Still he shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths as he waited for her arrival. He could have used another moment, but her stout form made its appearance in no time.

“I’ll take my tea in the study today. After that, you may be excused for the rest of the day,” Ben said.

“Very good your lordship. Should I send Jacob in to serve?” asked Mrs. Godfrey.

Ben replied, “No, that won’t be necessary. I can certainly manage on my own.” He quashed the smirk that was threatening to spread across his face. Though Ben could manage on his own, he would not this afternoon.

* * *

Hux entered the room like a chronically tardy schoolboy walking into a full classroom, sheepish yet still holding an air of defiance, eyes lowered, posture upright. He did not approach Ben, instead he stood just left of the door after he shut it, his arms held behind his back. Ben could see the minute machinations of Hux’s anxious hands reflected in the man’s angular shoulders. He felt a sense of accomplishment at his keen observation; Hux likely believed himself unreadable with the calm mask he strove to maintain.

Hux’s first inquiry was disappointingly bland. A twisted part of Ben had hoped that Hux might kowtow upon entry, in a grand gesture of his willingness to abase himself. Instead Ben was confronted by his rather prim valet.

“How may I be of service, your lordship,” Hux asked.

Ben had not made himself a cup yet, though all the accessories waited on the sideboard—the steaming kettle, the cold roast beef and warm tea cakes. He sat in his favored chair, a tufted wingback positioned near enough the fire to be tolerably temperate, immersed in the words of Schopenhauer. Ben had watched Hux enter the room, but he did not want to appear eager to give Hux what he desired. He returned to his book and took his time finishing the passage that Hux had interrupted with his entrance. His eyes saw the shapes the words made on the page, but his brain hardly registered their meaning.

Only so much disinterest would be appropriate to feign. He had to walk a fine line so as to not utterly alienate Hux. Ben shut the book, wet his lips, and turned his attention to Hux. As he assayed Hux, he noted that his turned-in toes were at odds with his high-held chin. His unease was as much endearing as it was enticing. His skin was made to be streaked with a flush of discomfort, and so it soon should be.

Ben cleared his throat and asked, “You used to wait at table did you not?”

Hux dropped his hands to his sides, causing his shoulders to slump, as he explained, “Yes, your lordship. As you know, my mother worked in the kitchens of the Duke of Calrissian. I was raised in service, and I started as a footman when I was just 14, though I haven’t served in some years. Valets, as a rule, do not partake in that sort of work.”

“Ah, but my valet is rather exceptional is he not? He provides services I have not heard of in other households. And I assume the skill is such that one does not soon forget the basics,” Ben tested. He was curious to see how eagerly Hux would lower himself to the task. Ben hoped in equal parts for quick cooperation, which he would be sure to mock, and extended heel dragging, so as cajole Hux with ample threats to an uneasy acquiescence.

“If it is your wish, I shall endeavor, your lordship,” Hux capitulated. He seemed even paler than usual as he nodded his head, but the barest hint of a smile worked at the corners of his mouth. Without another note of resistance, he began to fill the pot with steaming water from the kettle and took from his pocket a watch to note the time.

“Hm, eager to serve in any way you can. I’m pleased you’re willing to add to your duties so generously. Perhaps I should see if we can find a old set of livery for you to borrow if we make this a regular occurrence.” Ben would not actually force the livery of a footman upon Hux, for to see him humble himself attired in his smart charcoal trousers provided a far more compelling image than Hux clad in anachronistic hose. The way Hux stiffened at his words had been Ben’s goal. “Though I rather enjoyed the site of you kneeling just as you are last night, rumpling your fresh pressed suit.” He relieved a little of the tension, trying to find the right balance of shame and praise.

Hux did not reply, though his cheeks did regain a little of their fullness, having been sucked in tight with the clenching of his jaw. He began to fill a plate with a selection from the spread Mrs. Godfrey had left. He placed it on a silver tray along with a delicate fluted cup and asked, “How do you take your tea, sir?”

“A little milk, one sugar,” Ben answered.

Hux walked with a careful step, slow and measured like a wedding march, the hesitation between each stride allowing him a breath of relief. He had filled the cup a hair too far, Ben noted, when Hux set the moderately tarnished tray on the side table next to his chair. It would have been a reasonable amount of liquid had Hux been serving himself, but he was not. Indeed it must have been some time since Hux had served, to make such a telling mistake. This would need to change.

Ben commented, “A little too full perhaps? It’s a good thing you didn’t make a mess, though it would have been rather amusing to see you lap up the spill. But mark me Hux, I will allow a single instance of any one mistake. A second occurrence will need to be addressed swiftly and without leniency. Do you understand?” Ben’s own heart pounded at the bravado he forced forth.

“Yes, sir.” Hux clenched his now empty hands into tight fists.

Ben set the book on the table and smoothed the robe over his lap. It had seemed unnecessary to put on a jacket for Hux’s sake. He picked at the frayed hem and stared straight into Hux’s green eyes. He saw Hux’s pupils dilate to nearly eclipse the iris, in a feline display of alarm. Ben’s quick raise of his eyebrows elucidated his challenge. Hux averted his gaze and sucked his full bottom lip between his teeth, unwilling to question verbally the mixed messages he was receiving.

Ben took a sip of the tea. The fat of the milk coated his tongue in an unpleasant fashion, and he chastised, “Next time, less milk.”

Hux nodded and provided yet another simple, “Yes, sir.” He stood like a statue at the other side of the table, staring at the wall, as if he could see through it to some diverting scene. The steady rise and fall of his chest and the blinking of his eyes was the only sign that he was in fact flesh and not marble.

Ben did not like the feeling of Hux towering over him; he was too close for his standing to be interpreted as a sign of respect. Instead, he loomed and Ben sipped his tea like a lady cornered by an ill-tempered suitor. Ben did not want to perceive himself as small, especially not when he was objectively much larger than the other party. “You’re making me uncomfortable, casting your shadow like that. Rest of your knees until I next have need of you.”

Hux seemed relieved to lower himself to the carpet and did so quickly, although there was no pressing of his forehead against the carpet, to Ben's disappointment. The tea table blocked Ben’s view of all but the crown of Hux’s head, which was hardly a satisfactory arrangement, though the sight of his neatly combed ginger hair did have a certain attraction, if only as fodder for fantasies of Hux’s dishevelment. “No, no, out in front of me. You won’t be hiding behind that table. You’re not a child playing hide and seek with nanny.” Ben pointed with his sandwich to a spot aligned with the front of the table.

Hux scooted the few feet forward and turned to face Ben. His hands balled in his lap, then glided along the flannel of his trousers, before slipping into the crease behind his knees. His jacket covered the front of his trousers, but Ben suspected they were tented behind that scrap of privacy.

Ben elaborated, “Have you heard of the eastern kingdoms where no subjects are allowed to be of higher stature than their master? I think the general idea fits this circumstance well.”

Ben paused to chew, and the sound of his own mastication nearly drowned out Hux’s hushed assent. Ben had been so distraught with self loathing earlier in the day that he had eaten rather less than he should have. He swallowed ample mouth fulls, and in short order, devoured the slices of bread and roast beef along with the little lemon cake.

“Another sandwich,” Ben requested.

Hux put his hands forward and began to hoist himself up to standing, but before he could extend his legs, Ben cut in. “No, no getting up. Did you not hear what I just said? As long as I'm seated, you will remain on your knees. I think you can manage the retrieval of something so simple without standing.”

Hux extended his weight to rest on hands and knees and prowled forward. His jacket rode up during the crawl to the sideboard. Ben appreciated the sight of Hux’s meticulous grooming coming undone, his shirt hem beginning to come untucked. When he arrived at his destination, Hux sat back on his feet, but the trays were just at eye level. He didn’t risk rising and instead was forced to feel toward the back for the correct selection. Hux’s movement was so awkward on the way back, Ben would have almost felt pity, had he not known the shame was enjoyed by both parties. Hux shuffled forward on his knees with a plate of sandwiches held in his hands, and through the parted jacket front, Ben could see the tell-tale prominence.

“You’d crawl a mile on broken glass, wouldn’t you, if it meant gaining my attentions?” Ben taunted.

Hux looked startled at Ben’s intimation, but he did not deny its accuracy. Silently, he took the empty plate with one hand and replaced it with the fresh set of sandwiches and cakes. With his task accomplished, Hux sat back and held the empty plate on his lap, apparently not eager to make the trek back to place it on the sideboard and, therefore, lose the scant coverage he had gained. His eyes were wide and watering, and he blinked rapidly, like radiant sunlight stung him. 

An inkling of concern waxed in Ben’s mind. “I haven’t insisted upon your silence. You may speak freely. What is it? What do you want?”

The pause as Hux let out a deep exhale was nerve wracking even for Ben. “Your hands, sir. This distance you keep, I can’t take it much longer. How long will you keep me waiting for your pain?” Hux rasped. He begged like a man lost in the desert thirsting for a drop of water.

Ben relaxed and let himself meld with the plush upholstery of his seat. He was glad that the game was not at an end, but his rules meant he would not indulge in physicality with Hux. He teased, “Oh Hux, come now, aren’t you ashamed to grovel for something so beastly?”

Hux looked affronted, like Ben had insulted his mother rather than his pride. He regained his strength of voice and said, “Shame is a luxury not all of us can afford. I believe the going rate is £100.”

Ben’s laugh was a clipped bark that startled even himself. “Well, it’s good to know shame shall not pose a problem, if I were to further add to your duties.”

* * *

The lightheadedness that had plagued Ben began to abate once he finished the second round of sandwiches. The horseradish cream left a pleasant burn is his mouth, one that he was not interested in extinguishing with a saccharine lemon curd tart. Besides, Ben could think of a far better use for the sweet.

Ben watched Hux try not to fidget—the natural curvature of his spine growing greater, then correcting to ramrod straight. Ben asked, “You typically take your tea with Mrs. Godfrey before she leaves for the carriage house, don’t you? This play at waiting has denied you your meal, and I wouldn’t want you to get distracted by hunger.”

Hux shifted his weight once more, saying, “I’m quite alright, sir. You needn’t worry.”

“Ah-ah. You’ll take this tart with no further demurring. I asked for a sandwich, not a sweet, and you don’t want it to go to waste, do you?” Ben picked up the little tart and held his arm out at the appropriate height to feed a dog, or in this case, a kneeling servant.

Hux hesitated. He looked from Ben’s outstretched arm to his face and back again, as if he were waiting for another taunt to come or for the tart to be snatched away. Twice shy, he was pitiful.

Ben had no intention of denying Hux the tart. He didn’t want to make a fool of Hux; he wanted to see him timid and grateful. It would be made all the sweeter in that he knew Hux was holding back some caustic remark or yet another plea for his touch. Ben liked to see him docile.

Like a feral cat slinking tentatively toward a scrap of meat, Hux waded forward on his knees. He paused, he knelt back on his heels, he swallowed, he crept forward. If he had been in possession of feline ears, they would have been plastered back against his head. He would soon slither along with his belly the floor, if Ben kept this up much longer.

“You look quite the skulking animal. Perhaps I should put a little bell on you, so the jingling announces your approach. Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you to sneak around unnoticed,” Ben suggested.

Hux’s face flushed a lovely shade of variegated rose, his cheeks stained in streaks that continued down to his collar. Ben felt he should be trussed up in the gardens with his kind. The pause between his shuffles lasted longer this time, but finally, Hux came within reach of the tart.

Upon Hux’s near-success, Ben added a complication to the task. “Use only your lips to take it; you may not touch me.”

A puff of air expelled through Hux’s nose and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he gazed at the tart and, to Ben’s surprise and delight, took a nibble from the edge. A few crumbs fell from the broken crust and camouflaged themselves on the faded carpet.

Ben tutted and suggested, “I think one bite would be best.”

Hux swallowed the first mouthful. The tip of his tongue flicked out to catch the crumbs on his lips, ever tidy. Then he opened his mouth wide enough to take the moderately sized sweet in one bite. He engulfed the tart, along with the tips of Ben’s fingers, in the heat of his mouth. Ben could feel the rough slick of Hux’s tongue as it ran over his fingertips, clearing the sticky reside.

Ben yanked his hand back. “I did not request you wet my fingers with your tongue. In fact I think I expressly requested you refrain from touching me.” 

Hux coughed as he tried to not choke, but the expression on his face was that of pain not panic. His cheeks sunk and his eyes widened, and Ben felt as though he had kicked one of his hounds.

Ben allowed Hux to swallow a few times, to regain a fragment of his composure, though Hux was not likely to regain all of it until out of his presence. Ben was not without sympathy for Hux’s state. He took his teacup, placed it on his knee, and recommended, “Better take a sip to sooth your cough.”

Hux sidled up to Ben’s knee. He knew better than to grasp the cup in his hand and instead waited for Ben to make his move. Ben tipped a little liquid into Hux’s mouth, careful not to spill too much and add to, rather than relieve, his discomfort. Ben repeated the process a few times, giving Hux ample opportunity to finish sputtering in between sips. When the cup was empty, Ben placed it back on the tray.

Hux’s eyes were damp, and he swiped at them with his fist when Ben turned his attention to the table. It was a pointless attempt at hiding his distress, for Ben could easily see Hux from the periphery of his vision.

Ben let his hands rest on the arms of the chair and asked, “Better now?” The delightful flush had faded from Hux’s face and left him with a rather sickly pallor in comparison. Ben knew that Hux was unlikely to voice his discomfort, both from a sense of misplaced decorum and from a deep seated stubbornness.

Hux nodded and sagged forward until his cheek brushed the fine worsted of Ben’s trousers. Ben would have let the indiscretion slide if Hux had righted himself quickly, but Hux made no move to end the touch.

Ben crossed his right leg of the left, thus removing it from Hux’s reach. “Do you think that if you feign sickness I will allow your misbehavior to go unnoticed?”

Hux stumbled forward as if drunk, catching himself just before the fall. He was thoroughly disheveled now, his shirtfront rumpled, a scattering of crumbs clinging to waistcoat. It suited him, in this moment, better than any costume Ben could have concocted. However, the sad state of his appearance and Hux’s repentant look did not erase the act—no matter how deeply furrowed his brow grew, Ben would not relent.

Hux muttered a repeated apology. He likely saw this as an opportunity to work toward a physical punishment, but Ben would not reward the overstep.

“A secondary offense requires a punishment, as I established,” Ben said.

Hux’s eyes widened in what one might have read as fear but Ben knew to be anticipation.

Ben continued, “I will not strike you though. I will not touch you in any way. That would be giving you precisely what you are seeking. No. Instead you will kneel against the wall as I take my next cup of tea.” Ben pointed at the wall opposite his chair. “To the corner.”

Hux sucked both lips between his teeth and set his jaw, but he did not protest. He had not the leverage to sway Ben, both were well aware. His shuffle away, still on his knees, was quicker than had been his approach. Ben waited the short time until Hux had positioned himself to his specifications before standing to brew a fresh pot of tea. He smiled as Hux struggled to keep his head forward, obviously drawn to the sounds behind him. There was no need to hide his enjoyment of Hux’s distress with Hux’s eyes to the wall.

Ben took up his cup and trod with an intentionally heavy step to stand behind Hux. He stirred his steaming cup, allowing the spoon to tap against the china with each rotation. Ben took a slurp of the tea and watched as Hux’s shoulders tensed so tight he wondered if they might dislocate.


	3. Hux

A bell rang, loud and brassy, cutting through the quiet of the servants’ quarters. Hux dropped the periodical he was reading, stopping mid-sentence in an article covering the recent successes of the Labour Party, and tipped back a swig from his mug of tea. He grimaced at the mouthful of tepid liquid before forcing it down. No use finishing it, he thought, as he placed the mug on a tray that also held a plate of half-nibbled toast and the streaky yellow remnants of an egg yolk. 

Hux had whiled away most of the morning ensconced in the coziness of what had once been the butler’s office. Tywyll House employed no butler now, so Hux had felt comfortable taking it as his own refuge. He found himself spending much of his day thus engaged, with Lord Ren making so little use of his services. Evidence of an agitated sort of boredom was strewn about the room—account books twice balanced and tomes thrice read.

Hux quit the office and walked toward the staircase. Meanwhile, the bell rang again, insistent. Lord Ren was an impatient man—though he required Hux’s presence but infrequently, when he did, he expected Hux to materialize immediately. Hux verified on the second ring that the pull had originated in the study. Perhaps Lord Ren had more _momentous_ correspondence for him to post. Hux took the stairs two at a time to prevent a third or potentially fourth summons.

When Hux opened the door to the study, Lord Ren was seated at his desk, seeming to feign engrossment in the manuscript he was composing. He must have crossed the room to pull the bell not one but twice, so he could not have been seated long. His fountain pen hovered just above the paper, likely dripping a splotch of ink that would mar whatever draft he was on. He did not put pen to paper to actually write a word. Hux wondered how many of his actions were a power play and how many were sheer intellectual vanity.

“You rang, your lordship,” Hux interrupted.

Lord Ren set down the pen and ran his fingers through his already untidy charcoal hair, mussing it further. Hux repressed the urge to cross the room and smooth it back into place. He rather looked the tortured intellectual he tried so hard to assume the guise of, despite the reality that he did lived in the diametric opposite of a choleric boarding house. By neatening him, Hux could chip away at a little of this conceit.

“I leave for London this afternoon, and you shall accompany me on this trip,” Lord Ren informed. 

Hux replied, “Very good sir. I shall begin my preparations right away.” He tried to hide his irritation behind neutral courtesy. This was the first he had heard of the trip to London, and it would have been helpful to have more than a few hours to plan. He mentally began to prepare a list of all the tasks he would need to carry out before they left—packing Lord Ren’s and his clothing and toiletries, checking the schedule to make certain their trip was most expeditious, notifying the other staff to prepare the car for a trip to the station and a meal before they left. Hux was eager to quit the room immediately to begin his work, but Lord Ren had not excused him.

Lord Ren stretched his arms over his head and puffed out his chest, like a beast displaying its virility. He then slouched with easy languor, having little to do himself, while Hux scurried about in his preparations. Once quite comfortable, he continued his explanation. “It'll be a short trip; overnight is all. I have to meet with Mother. She’s to sign papers regarding the disbursement of the estate. But I’ll stay at the club. No point forcing her to prepare rooms for such a brief stay. Certainly no point spending more time than strictly necessary in her presence. That chore can wait until the June visit.”

“I'll prepare just the necessities in that case, your lordship.” Hux wondered if he would encounter the fabled Dowager Baroness of Ren. He had never been in her presence before, as the animosity between husband and wife had meant that the former Lord Ren had not treated with her during Hux’s employ, much less taken Hux along for the trip.

Hux nodded and Ben lectured on. “Oh and Hux, if you show superlative behavior while in London, perhaps you might even earn a reward. But before we leave, you must do something about that beard of yours. I don’t wish to be accompanied by a man who looks so obviously country reared.”

“I will try to comply, your lordship,” Hux answered, unable to completely erase the annoyance from his tone.

Lord Ren scoffed, “Now, now Hux, there will be no _trying_ in your compliance. You either will or you won’t. And if you choose noncompliance, then there will be no thought of a reward.” Lord Ren nestled his fist under his chin and leaned forward as if he were eagerly awaiting Hux’s dismay.

Hux did not reward Lord Ren with the pleasure of his own displeasure, replying instead, “As you wish.” Hux had grown his beard to remedy his self-consciousness. His frame was slight, and his beardless face made him look remarkably youthful. Though full beards were not for the young and fashionable set, he knew. Getting rid of his beard would make him look barely over the age of majority, but perhaps that was what Lord Ren was after—an ever increasing dimorphism between his angular goateed visage and Hux’s smooth, delicate face. Hux had to admit, the requirement gave him a certain rush, a desire to satisfy Lord Ren’s demand and earn his praise. And the intimation of a _reward_ , that held more promise than any comment yet made by the baron.

Lord Ren looked crestfallen at Hux’s easy acceptance. “Well, carry on. As you stated, you’ve things to prepare,” he excused Hux without another comment on the topic, returning his attentions to the imperfect manuscript.

Hux managed to find time between the packing of cases and the ordering of underlings to take care of Lord Ren’s grooming request. He still had the necessary equipment, though the blades of the razor were dull and abraded his skin. His hand adopted a slight tremor that slowed his speed, and in between strokes of the razor, he watched his whiskers swirl in the sudsy water like red tide rising on the crest of a wave. He looked in the mirror to see that same pretty youth he had tried to disguise emerge as his cover was stripped away.

When Hux finished, it took him a moment to gain the courage to touch his newly bare skin. He let out a slow, wavering stream of air and resigned himself to the same attentions he had received prior to his employ as a valet, when a beardless face had been a requirement for wearing the house’s livery. His hesitant search for stray hairs led to a firming in his trousers as he reluctantly reveled in his supreme exposure. Lord Ren had never seen his face this way, and Hux wondered if he would find him more or less attractive thus denuded.

Lord Ren was already waiting in the entrance hall when Hux joined him with their cases at half-noon. His perturbed look softened the moment he saw Hux’s face. He raised his hand, but checked himself before it came close enough to touch Hux’s smooth skin. The surly curve of his lip countered the brief flash of wide-eyed adoration and lust.

“A satisfactory attempt, but you still need to shorten your sideburns.” Lord Ren tapped his cheekbone an inch or so above his earlobe, then turned to make his way to the waiting car.

* * *

When the car arrived at the station, Hux knew that they must be parted for this leg of the journey, as he would not be joining Lord Ren in the first-class carriage. Still he was a pleasantly surprised to be purchased a second-class ticket, relieving him of the cramped benches and sweat stench of third. He’d resigned himself to a long afternoon of bumping knees with men who knew not how to use a handkerchief, and he was grateful for the reprieve. He took his seat, number 15, no shared benches there, and pulled the paperback out of his breast pocket.

A man a little older than Hux sat adjacent—a vicar buttoned up in black. He had pale blue eyes that scanned the carriage like the eye of a lighthouse. Hux wrapped his jacket close around his chest, blanketing himself against any illumination. He held his book open on his knee, as a sort of prop, but bore it little mind. His eyes did not trace over the rough paper the way his fingers did, absentmindedly acquainting themselves with the minutely raised letters. He preferred to gaze out the window, watching the scenery’s gradual shift from bucolic to urban. Hillocks, mottled green and brown with pasture grazed too close by distant cattle, gave way to clusters of semi-detached houses. Clusters clumped together, and then smoke stacks, belching streaks of grey soot into a slate sky, marched onto the horizon. Soon the train was swallowed by buildings on both sides.   

They arrived at Paddington Station just as dusk was settling over the city. At this time of day, one could almost imagine the baleful smog to be a spring mist, dimming the streetlights to a charming glow. It had been more than a year, since before the beginning of his employ at Tywyll House, that Hux had been to London. He did not miss the smell of burnt rubber and oil soaked fish, but the liveliness that surrounded him as he waited outside the station helped distract his overexcited nerves. Each hurried person who brushed his sleeve took him out of his head and back to the present moment.

The cab they hired to Saint James’s jolted down crowded thoroughfares and cramped side streets. Hux hoped a hair-pin turn would jostle the two of them together, but Lord Ren kept to his side. Within half an hour, they were deposited at the club’s door. Hux felt rather cheated to be ushered through the entrance with little chance to survey his surroundings. The doorman gave an obsequious bow to Lord Ren, and a moderate scowl accompanied his nod to Hux, as he let them in.

The building was unobtrusively elegant from the exterior, with a white-washed neo-classical facade, just like every other building in the square. A room of gentlemen in white tie, they resembled, with no dazzling ladies to break up the monotony. The interior held endless dark wood, accented by burgundy upholstery. Hux assumed it was supposed to look masculine in a refined sense, but it rather looked like an overgrown version of the ottoman that sat in front of Lord Ren’s smoking chair.

While Hux tried his best not to crane his neck as he surveyed the room, Lord Ren spoke with the concierge, a man who looked like an eager-to-please bulldog. His eyes lolled beneath a heavy brow, but they quickened as he greeted the baron.

“Ah, Lord Ren, welcome. So kind of you to visit us. We were distraught to read of your father’s passing. Our sincerest sympathies are with you.” The concierge paused to press his hand to his heart. His head bobbed to convey the depths of his sympathy, and with it his jowls quivered. “We’ve prepared the usual room. Will you be dining with us this evening?”

Hux supposed all men like Lord Ren must have _usual_ rooms in places like this, their preferences and prejudices nurtured at Eton and Oxford, then transferred to the appropriate club upon adulthood.

Lord Ren replied, “Yes, though I’ll need a cot set up for my man this time.”

“Straight away, sir,” the concierge nodded and excused himself with a jiggle of his chins.

Lord Ren pulled his gloves off, slowly, one finger at a time. His hands were powerful, fingers thick, meant to rend and bruise, master thinner limbs. He dangled the gloves for Hux to take, then interlaced his fingers and flexed his wrists. His joints cracked in a most unpleasant fashion, which Hux detested, though he kept his agitation to himself. Lord Ren shook the tenseness from his shoulders and commanded, “Take the cases up to the room. I’ll be in the library in the meantime. You might join me once you're finished.”

Hux followed a servant up the stairs and to the end of a hallway on the third floor. It was a smallish room, possessing a sloped ceiling and a single dormer. With the cot brought inside, there was little enough space to open the cases. Hanging up their contents in the armoire required an excess of sidestepping footwork. Hux suspected this was Lord Ren’s preferred room for its remoteness rather than its commodiousness, as a lavatory provided a buffer from the only other room down that same hallway.

When Hux returned downstairs, he did indeed find Lord Ren in the library, pen in hand, brandy at his elbow. Hux took a moment to admire the figure he cut before he disturbed him. Though Hux found Lord Ren’s intellectual aspirations pathetically far-fetched, after all very few gentlemen scholars entered the public consciousness in any one generation, he did suit the role aesthetically; the craggy, crooked nose would have been a poor match for a playboy, but to Lord Ren’s benefit, it lent him a distinguished profile.

Lord Ren looked up from his work and narrowed his eyes at Hux’s lurking. He swirled the brandy in the snifter and took a long sip, keeping it in the chamber of his mouth for a moment before his adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow. “I’ve just had dinner. Prepare me a cigar, then head on through to take your own tray if you’d like.” Snifter still in hand, Lord Ren pointed with his elbow to the lounge and the kitchen beyond.

Hux retrieved the cigar case from his jacket. He’d pocketed it after unpacking, assuming Lord Ren would be eager for his evening smoke. He slipped the guillotine around the head of the cigar and, with a quick compression of his fingers, sliced off the tip. The symbolism of the sharp blade cutting into such a phallic form was not lost on Hux, and he made sure to keep his eyes on the cigar, rather than Lord Ren, though he could feel sweat start to collect under his collar. He briefly warmed the tip of the cigar with the lighter, then held it out for Lord Ren to take.

Before Lord Ren put the cigar between his lips, in a low voice he taunted, “It would be much more appropriate for you to kneel during this process, would it not? Unfortunately, that man might object to such a display. Though you never know, he might appreciate it as well.” Lord Ren’s eyes darted to the corner of the room, and Hux’s followed, where a gaunt man sat slumped over the evening paper. “Perhaps when we return to Tywyll House, I’ll make this a regular occurrence? Then you can show me how proper you look back on your knees.”

Hux held his breath as he lifted the flame to light the cigar. Lord Ren slowly rotated it with his long fingers. He took a drag and held it, allowing his eyelids to droop as he savored the smoke. Then, in a steady stream, he blew the smoke up toward Hux’s face and set the cigar on the ashtray. “After you’ve eaten, meet me back here,” he ordered.

Hux stifled a cough at the unexpected cloud of smoke that he had inhaled. He managed to choke out, “Yes sir,” before retreating toward the kitchen. He whole being, mind and body, was so other-oriented he could barely tolerate a little soup and tea. His heart hammered in his chest and the rush of blood deafened his ears. Was he about to earn the _reward_ Lord Ren had mentioned, or would he need to pass yet another test?

Lord Ren had stubbed out the cigar by the time Hux returned, though it was only half smoked. Hux was disappointed to be denied the opportunity to hold the cigar between drags, to act as ashtray if needed. He thought of the smoldering butt and how it might have felt pressed against the palm of his hand. He knew it would have been blissful upon the instant of contact, as such pain always was, but it would be unwise to invite an oozing sore on his work hardened hands.

Lord Ren cleared his throat. “Your staring is getting rather peculiar, even for you. What exactly are you looking for?”

Hux stumbled through his response. “Nothing. Not looking for anything, not in particular, your lordship. Just considering a fancy that you would doubtless deny.” Hux wasn’t sure the level of impertinence Lord Ren would accept from him, now that he was elevated to his barony. In the past he’d never expected a meek attitude, after all, no one would treat with Hux and expect silent obedience. But he’d made sure that Hux understood how changed the circumstances were, despite Hux’s reluctance to change with them.

Lord Ren did not take the bait, but he didn’t balk either. He just gave a wry smile, like he was indulging in a private joke with himself, and stood. “I need to visit the lav. It’s just around the corner.” He took a step and waited. “Well, aren’t you coming?”

Hux nearly sprinted from where he stood to Lord Ren’s side. He instantly abused himself for appearing so eager, so pathetic, and he was careful to keep pace a step behind Lord Ren as he followed him out of the room. Fortunately, there were no prying eyes in the dim hallway to observe the two men entering a lavatory clearly intended for one. Lord Ren enjoyed vexing Hux, but he was not stupid.

Lord Ren switched on the electric light, and Hux shut and bolted the door. The incandescent bulb flickering and buzzed, giving the tiled room a fever dream-like quality, where no shape seemed quiet right, and the pale blue fixtures appeared to glow. Lord Ren approached the toilet, but he didn’t make to unfasten his pants. Again he waited. Hux stood a few steps behind him, still near the locked door, unsure of his role in whatever was to unfold.

Lord Ren let out an exasperated sigh and informed, “I didn’t invite you along to gawk from over there. You’re to provide assistance.”

Hux came closer to Lord Ren, close enough that he could feel the heat emanating from his skin and smell the tobacco smoke that clung to his clothing. He wanted to lay his face on the baron’s expansive shoulders and drink in the warm scent. He showed ample decorum in resisting the urge and stood with a buffer or air between his front to Lord Ren’s back. Though the position was not ideal for undressing, with Hux having to reach around Lord Ren’s middle to unbutton his fly, Lord Ren made no overture to simplify things by turning around. Hux strained closer still, but not too close. He made sure he did not brush against Lord Ren’s backside, and he paused before reaching inside the trousers, afraid of receiving another reprimand for an inappropriate touch. 

No reprimand came. Rather Lord Ren coaxed Hux on. “Take it out. Yes, there, like that. Now hold it steady for me.”

“What? Why?” Hux asked. He tried to still his shaking hand by force of will, but focusing on it only made the palsy more violent.

“I need to piss. You want to be of service. It’s a rather simple exchange,” huffed Lord Ren.

“You can’t be serious,” Hux balked. He couldn’t see Lord Ren’s face, couldn’t see if he was wearing a smirk or a frown.

“Oh I’m every bit serious.” Lord Ren’s voice grew lower with each utterance. “And don’t treat it as if it were your own. It requires a little more reverence than your sad little prick.”

Hux held Lord Ren’s cock like he was holding something fragile, made of crystal—just the tips of his fingers making contact. He took a deep steadying breath and managed to direct the amber stream toward the toilet bowl with little over-spray. It flowed forth quickly, impatiently, then slowed to a trickle. Hux stretched to reach for the toilet tissue with his left hand, still supporting the dripping cock with his right, but Lord Ren cut him off.

“I think a little more _personal_ attention would be appropriate.” He said with an acerbity implying Hux had just suggested using sandpaper to wipe it off, like the notion of tissue made for this express purpose was preposterous.

Hux moved his thumb forward to swipe at the tip, but again Lord Ren interrupted. “Do you really think your fingers are going to do the job? How sloppy you’re becoming. Your mouth. Put it to use.” Lord Ren spoke as if his suggestion was the most logical solution. How could Hux have not thought of it himself? “I know you’d do just about anything to have it in your mouth,” he taunted.

A frigid wave of shame crashed over Hux, leaving his skin clammy and ice cold. It was true. He would not only do it, he would relish the bitter shame of it. Hux shivered as he lowered himself to kneel on the unforgiving tile of the lavatory floor. His cock was so hard it was a challenge to keep his mind on the task at hand. He schooled his eyes forward as Lord Ren turned around. Hux could not bear to raise his eyes any higher than the baron’s midsection, at his as yet still-flaccid but flushing cock.

Hux gently took the tip inside his mouth, using just his lips, no sloppy hands, not after such a rebuke. The taste was acrid, but there was little to clean up, and he swallowed the grim residue as quickly as possible. Then he began to explore the plump head with his tongue, remembering how good the thick girth felt filling up his mouth.

When Lord Ren started to firm up, he threaded his fingers through Hux’s hair and pulled him off. “That’s enough. I think I’m more than clean now.”

Lord Ren tucked himself back inside his trousers and buttoned up the fly himself. Hux’s job was done, but he still could not meet his eyes, could not rise from the floor.

Lord Ren stepped around Hux and walked to the door, calling behind, “I’ll give you a moment to _compose_ yourself. But I do think you might have earned a little reward.”

* * *

Hux felt an instantaneous urge to hop to his feet and run after Lord Ren, to follow on his heels and have those disdainful hands on his body as quickly as possible. He felt an equally powerful urge to run out the door and down the streets of London, losing himself in the crowds to never again face the man who held such sway with him.

Hux, momentarily paralyzed between two extremes, took the middle path. He waited until he could no longer hear Lord Ren’s footsteps, then stood and turned on the tap. He watched the water flow from the faucet and pool in the basin and for a long moment was mesmerized by the stream. When he blinked his way back to reality, he tried not to look, but he couldn’t help glancing at himself in the mirror. The red, splotchy face looking back at him seemed to belong to someone else. In his mind’s eye, Hux was respectably stoic at all times, never the pathetic creature whom he now saw.

But Hux had asked for it, to be made of use, and Lord Ren had not let him off easy. He felt utterly disgusted with himself; it was brilliant.

Hux splashed cool water on his sweaty skin and rubbed his knuckles against his eye sockets hard enough to bring forth a burst of stars. The sting of the water did little to anesthetize his burning eyes, and he kept them shut to avoid another confrontation with his face. His cupped hands formed a reservoir, and he sucked water into his mouth, vigorously swishing it around to eliminate any lingering trace, then spat it back down the drain.

The world seemed to have dimmed by the time Hux opened his eyes again. The light above still shone, but the brightness didn’t seem to extend to where he stood, as it had before. He took a towel and roughly scrubbed his face dry. The friction at least left his skin a uniform red, disguising a little of his discomfiture. Too bad there was no easy remedy for his frantic pulse. He dropped the towel in the basket and used the last of the moisture to pat down his hair.

The walk to the third floor barely registered in his consciousness. Hux’s hand was on the door knob to the bedroom in what seemed an instant after his quitting the downstairs bathroom. Cowardice goaded him to slow his pace, and he turned the knob a fraction at a time, in an attempt delay his entrance. He knew it was ridiculous, that Lord Ren was waiting for him, likely watching the knob’s slow turn from the other side of the door.

The door let out a shudder and the hinge shrieked as it swung open. The sound might as well have been a blast from a cannon with the way it set Hux starting. It provided just the announcement of his entrance that he had hoped to avoid.

Lord Ren sat in the lone chair by the window, his feet propped on the sill in a nonchalant fashion, though his expression was anything but. His dark eyes seemed to bore through Hux’s skin, down deep to muscle and sinew and bone. They followed Hux in his walk from the doorway, around the cot, and to the space before Lord Ren’s chair. They were the eyes of a predator sizing up its prey.

Oh how Hux had missed that look.

Lord Ren broke the silence with a question. “Well, which do you want? My hand or my belt? You get a score of strikes either way.”

“Belt,” Hux blurted. His response was instantaneous, though the shock of the question nearly stole his breath away. It was no choice for Hux. The touch of skin on skin would be nice, but he wanted the reminder of this experience to last for as long as possible. A hand would pinken his flesh for a few hours at the most. But if he goaded Lord Ren just right, the blood vessels broken by a belt could last a week or more. He imagined he would feel the bruises the whole of the train ride back to Tywyll House.

Lord Ren stayed seated. His eyes crawled the length of Hux’s form. Then he nodded, having decided his approach without consulting Hux further. “Strip from the waist down but keep your shirt and jacket on. Then lie face down on the bed.”

The odd request amplified the transactional nature of Hux’s reward. Just one act, only the necessary parts exposed. Like a visit to the doctor, there would be no accidental caresses.

Hux fumbled with the buttons on his fly. His fingers were inert, slow to cooperate with his will, as if he had just awoken from a long sleep. Time dragged on as he struggled with the slippery metal buttons, but his impatience led him to persevere. He slipped off his shoes and placed them adjacent to the cot, the heels in line with the slats at the head. His stockinged feet at least allowed him to move quietly, helped him pretend this was the best of his daydreams. Then came the trousers and underpants, which were folded and neatly stowed. The room was chilly, adding to the overall clinical feeling. A cold dampness gathered at his neck, and his legs prickled, the fine red hairs standing aloft.

“My socks?” Hux queried. He sat himself on the edge of the bed, sinking in to the poorly sprung mattress, and wriggled his toes.

Lord Ren had not taken his eyes off of him, had perhaps not even blinked during Hux’s disrobing. “Leave them on.” He instructed as he stood to approach the bed. “On your stomach, and best put a pillow under your hips, to make sure the angle’s right.”

Hux flipped over and scooted up the coverlet. His jacket bound at his shoulders, impeding his reach for the pillow. He grappled with it and stuffed it under his hips. The down feather pressure against his swelling erection was heavenly. Behind him, he could hear the clink of a belt being unbuckled, followed by the swipe of friction as it was pulled from the loops. Hux held his breath and strained his ears, tracking the footfalls that brought Lord Ren nearer, noting the expulsion of air that preceded further instruction.

“Hold still,” Lord Ren said, rucking Hux’s shirt and jacket up around his waist to fully expose his ass. “I know you’ll count even if I don’t ask you to, but you needn’t do so aloud. This is a reward for your obedience, not a punishment. That said, I do expect you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

Hux tensed and pressed his palms flat against the bed. It was nearly impossible to keep still as he waited. The first crack of the belt was far louder than the pain warranted. Lord Ren must have doubled over the leather for better control. His hips snapped forward and the pillow absorbed the shock. It brought a bright flash across the very crest of his ass. The delightful sharp pain left a heated sting, but twenty of these strokes would not bring the lasting marks Hux sought.

“Harder, please,” Hux whispered to the coverlet. In the silence of the room, his murmur sounded a shouted demand. He felt himself walking a tightrope, and any words he spoke threatened to knock him from his precarious balance.

With no acknowledgment, Lord Ren let loose. The next strike was so severe it caused Hux to scramble against the mattress and fist handfuls of the bedding. It brought an adrenaline rush like Hux was running for his life. Lord Ren was kind enough to give Hux time to recover before the next strike, or perhaps cruel enough to drag out the anticipation. Hux gulped down a few shaky breaths before the third crack landed.

Bindings would have helped Hux better cope with the pain, if his only option were to lie still and take the beating. As it was, each stroke brought a battle between instinct and desire. Hux kicked his legs up in an ingrained reflex, but lowered them quickly and tried to still himself for the subsequent blow. His cock grew impossibly hard. It pulsed, trapped between his stomach and the pillow. He dared not rut against the padding, but the recoil from each strike provided a tantalizing stimulation.

The strokes got easier to take once the first ten had passed, as Hux’s skin deadened and endorphins flowed. As his silent count neared twenty, he bemoaned the nearing end. He longed for just ten more; he had not yet reached the crest when the strokes would turn truly painful once more.

Lord Ren landed the last stroke on the crease of his thigh, and Hux let out an ungainly yelp and curled in on himself. Not only was the spot especially tender, the first nineteen had been laid on his now thoroughly scorched ass. With his knees drawn into his chest, he shook lightly, from pain and from excitement. Sweat plastered loose strands of hair against his forehead. His cock head nestled under the edge of his jacket, a ridiculous preservation of modestly in the circumstance.

The belt thudded against the floor, and the mattress sagged with Lord Ren’s weight. “What do you have to say?” he grit out, his voice wavered with repressed lust.

“Thank you,” Hux whispered. Though only inches separated the two of them, the distance seemed great to Hux. He laid as still as he could manage and rested his eyes, longing for a touch that would not come.

Just when Hux was beginning to tumble into the slump that inevitably followed his high, Lord Ren provided a little buoyancy. “I’d almost forgotten what a pretty shade of red you turn. All that white skin just begging for it.”

Hux’s heart hitched, his hope lifted.

Lord Ren dashed it with his next statement. “If you need to take care of yourself, you can go to the lav. Don’t tarry though. You’ll accompany me to Grosvenor Square tomorrow morning, and Mother appreciates punctuality.”


	4. Ben

Bodies jammed tight together slowly jostled their way along the sidewalk. Elbows jabbed into flanks and heels trod on toes. Cough, yelps, and the begging of pardons melded with each other to produce a roaring din. Motorcars added to the cacophony by honking their horns at stalled horses, which, contrary to impatient intentions, only compounded the congestion in the street.

Ben had positioned Hux in front of himself, so as to not lose him in the crowd. His eyes were fastened to that unperturbed ginger hair, that lovely stretch of skin between shirt collar and tapered nape. Ben could not help it if, more than once, he brushed up against Hux’s sore behind. The packed street meant that any pause reverberated through the stream of bodies, and some undoubtedly would fail to stop soon enough to avoid contact.

The first time Ben’s hips pressed close enough to make contact, Hux stumbled and nearly dropped the case he carried, though a quick reflex saved it from being trampled on the sidewalk. It held the documents that had necessitated this meeting with his mother, and Ben had indicated their paramount importance. From there on out, Hux hugged the case to his chest, his arms crossed over it in a close embrace, his knuckles white from a too-tight grip.

Ben had not seen the state of Hux’s behind this morning—Hux had dressed before Ben rose from bed—but the prior night, two swollen purple lumps had formed at the swell of each cheek. Those marks where Hux had bled under his skin were sure to be tender for a few days at least. Though Ben imagined that even without the added discomfort, Hux’s reaction to his touch, so long withheld, would have been similar.

A crossing stalled the foot traffic completely. Ben tapped his foot and ferreted his watch from his pocket. The route to Grosvenor Square wasn’t terribly long, but it was already the appointed time and they still had four blocks to go. Ben wondered who would possibly want to weather this traffic on a daily basis. When they reached the portico it was ten past, and the already queasy pit of Ben’s stomach had soured further.

Ben lifted the heavy brass knocker on the door and let it slam back down with a satisfying crack. A man with a honeyed complexion, who Ben did not recognize, opened the door. Ben entered first, allowing Hux to follow behind him. His shadow was large enough to provide shelter for Hux’s thin form. Ben had brought Hux along as a vote of confidence for his superlative performance the night before, but this was not Hux’s battle, and he need not bear the brunt of Mother’s moods.

The man guided the two of them into the parlor, where Ben’s mother was seated at a secretary desk, scribbling away at a stack of papers, her glasses perched on her nose. Leia rose instantly in a feline pounce. “Ah, Dameron, thank you. Benjamin, you know it's rather rude to keep your poor mother waiting.”

“It is good to see you too mother.” Ben stooped to kiss his mother on the cheek. As ever, she smelled of powder and jasmine. Her eyes wrinkled with the sort of patronizing benevolence that spirited mothers reserved for their less successful children. Her adoptive father had been a rising Liberal MP, before he was assassinated, and Leia had taken up his banner, crusading for the downtrodden, after she had served a suitable sentence as Lady Ren of Tywyll House. Ben held in dubious regard the group of followers who had flocked to his mother, proclaiming her a thought leader, but he could not deny her verve.

Leia stood back and craned her neck around Ben’s bulk, querying, “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?” 

Ben took a step back as well, revealing Hux, still silently lurking in the doorway. Hux’s hesitancy was endearing. He possessed none of his usual self-assuredness, instead he seemed like a youth who had just _come out_ to society. Ben gestured in his direction and explained, “This is Hux. Father’s, or rather my, valet. Though his skill-set exceeds the typical duties of a valet.” Ben quickly added, “He’s taken on a fair share of administrative matters for Tywyll House.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hux.” Leia held out her small, white hand.

For half a second, Hux looked tremendously startled by the overture. But with no substantial delay, he rose to the occasion and strode forward to meet Leia. Ben was impressed by how quickly the mask of decorum slipped into place. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Ren,” Hux said, tentatively taking her hand and beginning to bow.

Leia tsked and gave his hand a good shake, saying, “None of that. Not in this house.”

Leia broke with Hux and bustled over to a low couch. She gestured for her guests to follow, to get business matters out of the way. The parlor had been redecorated since Ben’s last visit. The light wood and linear form of the furnishings reflected the japonism on display in the fine lacquered fire screen. The fashionable decoration was a reminder than Leia held an income separate from Tywyll House. She’d married Lord Ren for love, not money, as she never let Ben forget.

Ben sat down in the chair closest to Leia, allowing Hux to take a position more distant from his mother’s watchful eye.

Hux stilled and made a demurring noise as he stood behind the chair, but Leia insisted. “Take a seat Mr. Hux. Really, what are you on about back at Tywyll House, Benjamin? It’s the 20th century, and you’re still keeping a valet who feels the need to stand in your presence? For shame!”

Hux sat on the very edge of the chair, his back straighter than if he were tied to a board. His legs tensed, taking most of his weight. Ben couldn’t help but smile slightly at the predicament. To Leia it would look like discomfort caused by the familial bickering he was forced to witness, but Ben know otherwise. In response, Ben settled deeper into the upholstery of his chair and stretched out his legs, letting himself enjoy what Hux could not.

Leia launched straight into the matter at hand. “So about these papers. I’m more than happy to disclaim my entitlement to the Tywyll House dower income. My current funds are sufficient, and I’ve no interest in bothering with affairs of the estate. I’d rather it stay in one piece, and perhaps it might provide an advantage in light of all the fracturing estates as of late.”

This settlement had been agreed upon in writing beforehand; the meeting simply cemented it. Ben hadn’t asked for more, when he’d read the will and seen that a significant portion of the estate had been earmarked for Leia’s continued maintenance. It had been Leia’s idea, an apology for having abandoned Tywyll House more than a decade ago. She’d encouraged Ben to have his solicitor draw up the papers she was about to sign, beyond encouraged, browbeaten really, as was her nature when things were taking too long.

“Hux, the papers.” Ben held out a hand, and Hux handed over the case. The smooth calf leather felt like it was a living, breathing thing with the way it had warmed under Hux’s touch. He imagined that if he lay his ear against it, he would hear Hux’s pulse thumping away. He let the case lie against his chest as he slid out the necessary documents. When he stowed it under the chair, he felt a little tug inside his ribcage, but he could hardly reach the table hunched over the case.

Ben handed the papers over, and Leia pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and inspected the document. “Wilson did a fine job with this,” she commented, then added with an air of suspicion, “He’s rather too good for a county solicitor.”

Ben tried not to roll his eyes at her tiresome dig. “London isn’t the pinnacle of all civilization. Some of us _like_ a little distance from the squalling masses.”

“Oh Benjamin, you’re practically a recluse,” Leia scoffed, as if it were impossible that anyone of substance could exist more than five miles from Charing Cross. She didn’t understand how badly Ben needed solitude to maintain his sanity, but she’d never attempted to understand, all the more reason Ben kept his distance.

Nevertheless, Leia signed the document, then slid it forward across the coffee table. Hux bore witness and signed his name below Leia’s elegant scrawl, and it was he who stood and retrieved the case from under Ben’s feet. He slipped the papers back inside and waited next to Ben’s chair, well trained indeed.

Leia gave her son a sharp look, one that might have cowed a man who had seen it less frequently. She asked, “Won’t you stay for tea? The two of you both?” She fidgeted with the pen she held, tightening and loosening the cap, a nervous tick while she awaited the inevitable denial. She must have known her invitation was pointless.

Ben shot a glance toward Hux in time to catch sight of his eyes bulging at the mention of tea. His smile was directed toward Leia, though it was not for her. “No, Mother, another time. I’m only staying the one night. Our train leaves at four o’clock, and I still need to collect my things from the club before heading to the station.”

“You know you needn’t stay at the club. You always have a room here,” Leia reminded Ben, as she had countless times before.

“I know, Mother. I appreciate the offer, but for such a short visit, I didn’t want to bother you. I really must be going.” Ben hoisted himself up. Leia’s nagging made it easy to leave the embrace of the plush wingback chair.

Leia reached out and took hold of Ben’s cuff. “A word before you leave. Alone.”

Ben nodded at Hux. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you outside.”

“It was a pleasure, Mr. Hux. I hope next time I might be able to learn more about you,” Leia lamented.

Hux bid his farewell and bowed, out of habit, as he shut the door.

Leia waited until Hux’s steps had grown distant before speaking in a stage whisper. “It’s wretched that you still keep a valet, the way a man keeps a dog. I know Han must have wanted to keep up appearances until the end, but I expected better from you. Do you really need a human shadow to bow to you and feed your ego?”

“I couldn’t just let him go. Father had only acquired him last year,” Ben explained. He could hardly mention the other reason why he hadn’t dismissed Hux, that he held a substantial amount of ammunition, capable of destroying his, and Leia’s, reputation. “And besides, who’s this Dameron you employ?”

Leia continued her lecture. “Surely you could find another use for him, one he might prefer to lugging your cases around London. And Dameron is my trusted assistant, _not_ my servant.”

“I’ll think about it, Mother. But I’m going to miss the train if I don’t leave now.” Ben started to back away toward the door.

“Very well. I expect your letter next Friday,” Leia said, reaching out to gather Ben into her arms. She barely reached his shoulder.

“Yes, Mother,” Ben muttered.

Leia pressed her head against Ben’s chest. “Take care of yourself.”

* * *

The car pulled up the drive and killed its lights, leaving Tywyll House ensconced in darkness. The parapets were barely visible, just faint jagged teeth receding against the cloudy night sky. It was impossible to tell where the wings of the house ended and the void began. Ben wished to snuff out the beacon of light shining next to the door, though without it, he would need to feel his way forward on this moonless night. The ignominy of stumbling to the door seemed a worthy price to pay for the comforting embrace of total darkness.

Ben waited for Hux to exit the car and carry their cases inside before he followed. Hux had ridden in the front of the car, as propriety demanded, and Ben wished to delay conversation with him for as long as possible. He needed time to think, and Hux needed no guidance to do the unpacking. Then he would be free to use the remainder of his evening as he liked.

Upon entering the house, Ben went straight to his study, avoiding entirely the dressing chamber. He’d rather remain moderately uncomfortable in his traveling clothes than risk time alone with Hux. A crackling fire warmed the room, though it quickly became oppressively hot with his travel-weight wools on. Ben shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and when he draped the jacket over the back of his desk chair, he saw it. A white slip of hope that shined bright against the mahogany wood of his desk top. Was it the letter Ben had been waiting for, for months, for years? He tore into the envelope like a child receiving a long desired gift.

 

> Dear Lord Ren,
> 
> Thank you for your submission. The analysis you provided was insightful; however, we regret to inform you that we are unable to accept your manuscript at the present time. We received an unprecedented number of submissions this quarter, and your work, though impressive, was not a strong match for this issue’s theme. We invite you to revise this work and resubmit it at a later date…

It was a typed letter, one that had probably been duplicated and distributed a hundred times. Ben should have known to temper his hopes by now, to mitigate the low that unavoidably followed the high of anticipation. But still his heart plummeted through his stomach to lie, dribbling blood, on the slate floor. His body went cold, then flamed hot, to finally settle on total numbness, as if refusing to process any more sensation. He flopped into his chair and let his head fall back to stare idly at the ceiling. The room seemed to shrink until it was impossibly small, the walls threatening to crush him.

The manuscript Ben had submitted to this journal was his fifth revision, yet still it was not enough, it would never be enough. The feeling that had been creeping toward him for some months became patently obvious. He would not succeed in this world full of gate keepers and taste makers. Another quarter of revisions wouldn’t buy him a seat at their exalted table. The only thing that would possibly help would be connections in high places, and Ben was too ill tempered to succeed at sycophancy.

What was the point of sticking stringently to the rules of propriety, if he was to spend all his days an anonymous presence? A scandal about the Baron of Ren wasn’t worth reporting, except perhaps as a dig at his mother, and the thought of embarrassing Leia provided him with equal amounts schadenfreude and fear. He made a point of absenting himself from society functions after having obtained absolutely no headway in his attempt to enter the echelon with which he wished to associate, despite having finished his degree several years ago.

Ben checked his pocket watch. It was past midnight, but before reason could stop his hand, he rang for Hux. The panic that he felt in response to his rash call was distant, like he was remembering a painful memory from long ago—the bullying of a schoolmate who could hurt him no longer.

Hux’s knock at the door was restrained, the soft scratching of a banished animal who hoped for affection.

“Come in,” Ben called.

Hux was in his night clothes, a set of sky blue pajamas that hung loosely from his frame, making him look younger than his years, especially with his beardless face. His hair was flattened on one side, but he looked concerned, rather than angry, to have been roused from sleep.

“Shut the door behind you.” No servant but Hux slept in the main house anymore, but Ben still felt exposed with the door hanging open.

Hux followed instruction and asked, “How may I be of service, your lordship?”

“That is the last time you will use that title. Effective immediately, you are dismissed from your position as valet.” Faintness washed over Ben, at his own bold decisiveness. His sweaty hands gripped tightly the arms of his chair.

Hux’s face slackened; his lips pursed to mouth the word _why_.

The reasoning tumbled out at once. “If you choose to accept it, and the choice is truly yours, you may stay on at Tywyll House. But your position will be that of a secretary, with authority in the running of the estate. You will no longer be a servant. I don’t need to keep a man to tie my shoes for me. You offered your companionship before, and I have far more use for that, and for you keen intellect, than for the services of a valet.” Ben stopped to catch his breath.

Hux blanched pure white. He didn’t respond, just stared at Ben with pupils so wide the green of his eyes was nearly eclipsed. Those wide eyes heightened the vulnerable aspect as his appearance, and Ben wondered if he had made a mistake in bringing the change on so abruptly.

Ben rested his steepled fingers beneath his chin. He studied Hux for any continued averse reaction and elaborated, “I understand that this may come as a shock, considering my earlier stipulations. But there has been, how shall I say, another change in circumstance.”

Hux dipped his head in acknowledgment. His continued silence drove Ben on. Ben had planned on Hux’s easy assent; he longed to hear the word. Perhaps his silence was payback, for all the torment Ben had brought over the past month.

“Well? Do you accept my offer? If you’d rather leave Tywyll House, be assured, I will provide you with a glowing reference as to your abilities, though I’ve heard positions in service are growing scarce these days. Still, Lord Calrissian may be able to find a place for you.”

“Yes. Yes of course I accept,” Hux nearly shouted, his frustration bubbling over.

Ben closed his eyes and savored the moment, the fullness of his possession of Hux. “Very good.” Ben stood, but kept his distance from Hux, not wanting to overwhelm him. He wouldn’t chase if Hux fled. “All prior stipulations now being void, I would very much like to touch you. For that to happen, I would have you undress,” Ben requested.

Hux showed no resistance to the idea. Why would he, after how he had begged for Ben’s hands? He stepped out of his pajama bottoms and folded them neatly. When he moved to place them on the table, Ben stopped him.

“Leave them on the floor.” Ben expectations were clear—Hux’s _companionship_ would still be on Ben’s terms. But an exchange between equals was hardly what either of them sought, at least in this aspect of their association.

Hux couldn’t help but frown slightly as he dropped the article on the carpet. The jacket joined them shortly, revealing his narrow chest, his soft, thin abdomen. He was fragile looking, but he would not break easily, Ben knew, his resilience based on more than physicality.

“Come closer.” Ben crooked his finger, beckoning.

Hux stepped toward the desk. It was a stilted stutter of a gait, with his arms hanging still at his sides.

“That’s enough. Turn around.” Ben’s cock swelled at the sight of the purple marks that marred Hux’s pale skin. Ben wanted to touch them, worship them, add to them, see tears leak from pinched eyes as Hux begged for more, for it to stop.

“God, you look good with those marks on you. Though you’d look even better with a few more. Your thighs could take some, maybe even your calves. Purple all the way down to your ankles. And no excuses, now that you won’t be doing any heavy lifting.”

Hux stiffened at the suggestion, his hands balling at his sides.

Ben lay his hand against the flesh of one bruised cheek, his touch soft as first. Hux was damp with a cold sweat and shivered at Ben’s ministrations. He ran his thumb over the still-swollen lump and felt himself grow fully hard. As his fingers dug into the purpled skin, causing it to whiten from the pressure, his cock pulsed, trapped in the confines of his pants. Hux tensed visibly at the touch, but he did not complain.

Ben let go of Hux and pocketed the salve he kept for dry winter hands from his desk drawer. He prodded Hux, forcing him up against the wall. When he pressed his hardness against the bruises, Hux sucked in a whining gasp. “That’s what seeing you marked like this does to me.” His cock leaked at the slight stimulation, and still more from Hux’s moan of a response.

“Get yourself slicked up for me,” Ben commanded.

Hux tried to look over his shoulder, opened his mouth to ask a question. Ben reoriented him with a hand at the back of his neck. “Give me your hand. I’m not getting mine dirty.”

Hux reached back, and Ben deposited the salve into his open hand. Hux unscrewed the lid and scooped a dollop onto his fingers, then dropped the tin on the floor. Ben reveled in Hux’s growing carelessness.

While Hux worked one finger and then a second into his hole, Ben unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down around his hips. He didn’t bother to take them all the way off. Hux being completely naked was a necessary measure of control, but he hardly needed to expose himself like that.

Ben took his flushed cock in his hand and rubbed it against Hux’s slickness. “Are you sure you’re able? You haven’t taken in more than a month.”

Hux grit out, “Just do it. I can take it.”

“So impatient,” Ben chided. “Hands on the wall then.”

Ben nudged his leg between Hux’s thighs, spreading them wider than necessary—wide enough to be uncomfortable, to be a struggle to maintain. He dug his thumbs into the welts as he pried Hux’s cheeks apart, putting Hux’s hole on display.

Hux tried to pull away, out of instinct, Ben was sure, rather than intention, but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped between Ben and the wall. A low moan emanated from deep within his throat. He must have realized his predicament.

Ben lined himself up. He pushed in to the waiting heat, and Hux attempted to buck forward, unsuccessfully, with no room to move. Hux’s hole spasmed as it tried to expel the intrusion, but Ben kept pressing on into the tightness that was nearly too much, even for him. Ben could see Hux’s fingers turn pink and white as they scrabbled against the wall. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Ben taunted, voice just above a whisper, as he bottomed out.

* * *

Ben unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a small package, nondescript, wrapped in plain brown paper. It had required an embarrassing amount of effort to locate without Hux’s assistance. The hounds had received theirs when Hux was still valet to Ben’s father, and the maker had not left his mark on the leather. With a few inquiries in the village, he’d been able to locate the tanner and order a third, “for his new hound,” he’d claimed. The tanner had cautioned him to wait until the pup was full-grown, otherwise it would soon outgrow the collar. Ben had been forced to fabricate a story about how he was taking on a dog from a friend who was going abroad, not raising a whelp.

Ben no longer needed to ring the bell to summon Hux from the butler’s office. Hux was already with him, sitting across the room at a desk very much like his own, tabulating this month’s rent collection. Hux had a far better head for numbers than he; consequently, it had taken little coaxing for Ben to relinquish a considerable portion of the estate management duties.

Ben untied the twine and folded back the paper; the crinkling noise was a shout for attention in the silent room. Hux looked up from his work, one eyebrow raised in a query.

“Come here,” Ben called.

Hux didn’t wait for an explanation. He walked over, quick and eager, to investigate the source of the noise. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers, his hair neatly swept back except a forelock that he’d toyed with during his calculations. Ben let him dress for outings, in waistcoat and jacket, but at home he liked to see him soft, unpadded.

Ben slid the unwrapped collar across the desk, the skid of cardboard beckoning Hux nearer. The collar was made of dark oxblood leather, a color that would look stunning against Hux’s pale skin. It was an inch wide, and, though Ben had entertained the fantasy of making good on his threat to attach a bell to the ring at the front, presently unadorned. Ben kept silent, didn’t make an announcement of his intent, not right away. He was keen to watch Hux’s unadulterated reaction instead.

Hux trailed a fingertip along the leather, like he was testing the water before plunging in. His face remained relaxed, though his nostrils flickered as he considered the collar.

Content to see that curiosity rather than revulsion was Hux’s mood, Ben spoke. “My other loyal companions have one,” Ben gestured to the two hounds slumbering before the hearth. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“I’m not a hound,” Hux muttered, but there was no force to his disavowal.

“But a loyal companion you are,” Ben encouraged.

Hux released a puff of air, and with it let go of his half-hearted attempt at defiance. He reached to unbutton his shirt, deft fingers flying along the placket. As the fabric parted, he revealed a scattering of teeth marks across his collarbone. Some were still fresh red, each individual impression slightly raised; others had faded to a murky yellow.

Ben shifted, the site of the marks making his pulse accelerate. Even more than he enjoyed the act, he adored the evidence that lingered, indicating Hux as his human canvas to mar as he pleased.

Hux picked up the collar, but Ben stopped him before he had raised it more than a foot off the desk.

“You may look as you please, but you won’t be the one to put it on. _Or_ to remove it.” Ben noted a contraction in Hux’s shoulders and quickly added. “I’m not daft enough to walk you outdoors with the hounds. It shall be removed before you exit this room, and, when not in use, will be locked up safe in this drawer.” Ben patted the key that rested in his breast pocket. “And besides, a spare collar would hardly raise questions were Mrs. Godfrey to encounter it in her dusting.”

Hux set the collar down and walked around the desk, to stand before Ben. His movement was sharp, like an automaton’s imitation of man, as he so clearly strove to override his hesitancy.

Ben parted Hux’s shirt and delved under the fabric, into the radiating warmth that invited his touch. Hux relaxed, his ribcage deflating with a deep exhale. Ben let his fingers play across the marked skin before removing the shirt entirely.

“It would be easier if you knelt,” Ben suggested.

Hux folded his less-than-steady legs and arranged his unneeded hands in his lap. He interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes, as if expecting a divine visitation.

Ben retrieved the collar and unbuckled it. Hux flinched as Ben fastened the leather around his narrow neck. He thought he’d properly accounted for Hux’s slightness, but he ended up threading the prong through the smallest hole, and still, he could easily slip a finger between the leather and Hux’s skin. It was adequate for Ben’s current purposes, to introduce the idea, but he’d need to punch another hole for use under less compassionate circumstances, when the bite of the collar would be a necessary reminder.

Ben grasped Hux’s chin and tilted his head back. “Open your eyes. No hiding. I want to see you look at me.”

Hux’s eyes snapped open, wide and skittish. His pupils contracted to pinpricks when exposed to the light.

Ben held Hux’s gaze and complimented, “It suits you. I knew it would. The same red you turn after I take a cane to you.”

A flush pinked Hux’s skin in response, but his soft expression looked more proud that embarrassed. 

Ben sat back and turned toward his desk. He looked at the sleeping dogs, stretched out on the rug. “Why don’t you go lie with them while I finish this letter. I’d like to see you together.”

Hux stayed on his knees. His lips parted in an aborted protest. 

Ben cupped the crown of his head and reassured, “I’ll join you later.”

Hux countered, “It’s not that.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Ben asked.

Hux sputtered, “I’ll look a fool. I’m a grown man.”

Ben laughed, not at Hux, but at the absurdity of his protest. Hux found the strangest moments to let his pride get the best of him, considering all he’d done. “I don’t think so, and that’s what matters, in cases like this. Isn’t it?” Ben stroked Hux’s hair as he lectured, “You might not like each individual act, at least not at first. But that’s the point. You don’t get to pick and choose. It’s my choice. And giving in, knowing that the discomfort you feel is nothing compared to the satisfaction the act brings me, that should bring you satisfaction as well.”

The pink across Hux’s cheeks darkened to a genuine blush. He stood and shook out his cramped legs, then stumbled his way toward the hearth.

“I think the fire’s warm enough to forgo the trousers,” Ben called, jubilant.

Hux slipped out of the last of his clothing, leaving his bruised ass and thighs bare. There wasn’t a prettier picture than the spectrum of color spread across Hux’s skin. Every time the marks started to disappear, Ben couldn’t help but make a fresh set, layering his canvas width depth and complexity to form a living testament of the pain Hux had born.

Hux’s movements were unsurprisingly cagey at first, and he lay himself down on the very edge of the carpet, refusing to come too near the hounds. But he appeared to realize his folly as he shivered in the cool air, and shifted closer to the other animals. One hound lifted its head, noting its new friend with a cautious sniff, then lay back down. Hux’s hand crept forward to stroke the dog’s fur.

Ben admired his precious possessions from behind his desk. How well they complimented each other, boy and pups together. Hux nestled against a wolfhound that was nearly as big as he, painting the appearance of an artless youth who had somehow found his way into a welcoming den. Ben’s chest swelled, and he slid his hand between his legs to cup his hardness. How foolish he had been to resist this. He massaged his length and considered all that was yet to come—Hux would be a more worthwhile project than any of his previous endeavors.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to stop by on [Tumblr](http://sinnotalone.tumblr.com).


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